LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

OIKX  OF" 

•;£?         -*- 
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Received 
Accession  No. 


,  189$- 


Claxs 


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One 


Evening 


Liong  Ago 


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7/4 


u.    a 


And  yet  oblivion  is  kind  : 

The  skein  of  life  will  not  unwind, 


ne    Qvenma 


on 


'  Twas  long  ago,  my  children  dear, 
Occurred  the  tale  I  tell  you  here : 
And  on  the  old  New  England  coast 
Hard  by  the  ocean's  roar  and  foam^ — 
A  family  group  in  an  old-time  home, 
The  children  guests,  the  father  host. 

But  who  ?     A.ud  where  ?     It  matters  not, 
For  women  and  men  are  soon  forgot. 
Too  soon  the  hand  of  Time  effaces 
All  that  was  dear  and  leaves  but  traces 
For  those  who  yet  a  little  stay 
And  wait  the  close  of  life's  brief  day. 

And  yet  oblivion  is  kind  : 

The  skein  of  life  will  not  unwind, 


And  strangers  may  not  see  the  thread 
That  bound  our  lives  with  those  now  dead; 
But 'in  the  Temple  of  the  Heart 
The  fragrance  sweet  of  Love  remains  ' 
And  lives  of  onrs  that  formed  a  part 
Still  share  our  joys  and  salve  ourx  pains  : 
While  to  the  world  that  heedless  runs, 
The  Flood  of  Years  still  bears  along 
Upon  its  current  grief  and  song 
That  swell  the  stream  which  makes  at  last 
The  boundless"  ocean  of  our  Past, 
And  leaves  but  shadows  for  the  mind,  . 
Leaves  but  the  whispering  of  the  wind 
That  idly  drifting  may  have  known 
Some  part  of  life  they  deem  their  own  ? 


The, .clouds  all  day  had  westward  raced, 
And  as  the  gathering  darkness  fell, 
The  rising  wind  In  gust  and  moan 

e  promise  of  the  storm  to  come; 
o.rhead'  the  shredded  mist 

v  here  and  there  by  sunlight  kissed, 
Drove  by  like  silent  speeding  ghosts 
prom  other  lands  and  unknown  coast*. 


But  not  for  lei  1  suspense 

While  earth  and  air  alike  seethed  tense, 

with  a  shriek' and  dash  of  rain 
That  smote  the  earth  as  with  a  flail 
And  made  the  old  house  groan  again, 
Rose  on  the  night  the  southeast  gale. 

But  while  without  was  night  and  storm, 
The  cheerful  ..fireplace  blazed  within, 
And  to  the  wind  that  shook  the  pane 
And-  whirled  around  the  outer  door, . 
The  chimney  shot  its  shower  of  sparks 
And  answered  with  deep-throated  roar. 
But  little  heeded  rain  or  wind 
The  group  around  the  generous  fife, 
Who  chatted  in  a  merry  way, 
While  from  the  driftwood  high  and  higher 
The  flames  of* orange,  green  and  blue 
That  many  a  flickering  shadow  threw, 
Would  leap  and  dance  and  then  expire. 

The  picture  comes  like  music's  strain, 
Till  gathering  mist  is  almost  raint 
And  yet  of  people  plain  I  tell, 
Not  those  who  011  the.lieigfhts  may  dwell — 


Not  that  rare  group  who  at  a  time 

By  Longfellow  told  in  charming  rhyme. 

Storm-bound  met  in  a  tavern  old 

Where  each  in  turn  their  stones  told 

And  made  of  their  enforced  stay 

A  long  to-be-remembered  day ! 

No  brushwood  hung  above  the  door 

Told  passefs-by/of  wine  within, 

And  yet  no  vine}rard  ever  bore 

Such  wine  as  flowed  in  Sudbury  Inn ! 

And  while  the  elders  thought  or  spoke 

Of  memories  the  storm  awoke, 

Of  ships  at  sea  that  helpless  tossed, 

Or  those  amid  the  breakers  lost, 

Some  one  who  loved  the  legends  old, 

The  rare  old  stories  rarely  told, 

Besought  the  sister  to  begin 

Tfye  well-worn  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 


And  nothing  loth  for  such  good  cheer, 
Each  listened  with  attentive  ear 
Till  through  lier  voice  the  poet's  thought 
On  each  its  subtle  charm  had  wrought, 


And  clear  before  us  seemed  to  stand 
f  he  pictures  from  the  Master's  hand ! 
Out  from  the  glowing  pages  stepped 
Viking  and  knight  who  long  had  slept; 
Again  the  old  Colonial  times 
Depicted  in  the  ringing  rhymes 
Seemed  to  have  passed  but  yesterday, 
Aiid  in  our  hearts  we  felt  the  thrill 
Evoked  by  thoughts  of  Bunker  Hill  !- 
Then  in  the  lull  of  the  driving  storm — 
Aye,  though  the  room  was  bright  and  warm, 
Again  we  heard  in  startled  fear 
The  midnight  hoof-beats  of  Revere! 

Then  passing  to  an  earlier  time, 
And  people  of  a  foreign  clime, 
Portrayed  fqr  us  in 'flowing  lines 
The  tales  of  which  old  legends  tell — 
That  like  the  vintner's  cobwebbed  wines 
Grown  on  his  favored  choicest  vines, 
Still  hold  the  sunshine  of  the  skies 
And  a  bouquet  that  never  dies! 
Tales  that  were  told  ere  we"  were  born, 
And  will  be  told  when  we  are  gone. 


And  first  of  that  Italian  town — 

- 

The  hamlet  wears  the  poet's  crown! 

* 

The  Atrian  bell  whose  ready  tongue 
Had  long  for  right  and  justice  swung, 
But  failing  wrong  and  law's  abr, 
Had  rusted  from  the  long  disuse 
Until  for  lack  of  better  food> 
Qne  suffering  from  ingratitude, 
An  humble  beast  turned  out  to  die, 
Espied  the  rope  with  creepers  twined, 
And  having  in  a  manner  dined— 
For  off  the  cord  he  took  his  fill, 
Pulled  at  it  with  a  right  good  will, 
Until  the  ringing  loud  and  long 
Brought  to  .the  spot  a  motley  throng 
Prompt  to  declare  the  steed  was  right, 
And  that  his  master  though  a  knight 
Be  brought  to  book  and  made  to  know 
The  law  reached  high  as  well  as  low. 

•» 

His  wrongs  were  righted  and  the  steed 
Secured  at  once  his- meal  and  meed 
Of  justice  for  his  latter  days 
Without  appeal  or  law's  delays ; 
And  King  and  subject  both  approved 


The  equity  of  ;> 

That  Justice  still  should  blinded  be, 
And  shield  the  humblest  and  the  least 
K'CMI  though  the  suppliant  were  a  beast! 

Of  Scaiiderbeg  who  cleared  the  path 

To  power  and  fame  of  Amurath, 
But  in  the  shadow  of  the  throne 
Abandoned  all  to  join  his  own; 
To  save  from  Turkish  lust  and  greed 
His  native  town  of  Ak-Hissar, 
And  in  the  dust  and  mire  tread 
The  flag  with  Alban  blood  made  red, 
The  flaunting  Crescent  and  the  Star. 

-The  cobbler  of  Hagenau, 
Whose  prudent  simple-minded  frau 
Her  passport  for  eternal  rest 
Had  bargained  at  a  monk's  behest. 
And  with  her  treasures  put  away 
The  guerdon  of  a  future  day: 
Regretful  that  her  coarser  half 
Returned  her  faith  with  jeers  and  chaff, 
And  said  her  soul. would  drift  awav 


Despite  salvation  bought  for  pay ! 

While  sdles  he  pegged,  when  he  was  through 

Would  last  "'until  the  trumpet  blew! " 

Content,  because  though  purchased  cheap, 

Her  days  were  easier  and  her  sleep 

No  more  disturbed  by  thoughts  of  death; 

IP  of  lock  and  key  secured  the  prize, 

The  certainty  of  Paradise 

When  she  in  time  should  yield  her  breath. 

Then  from  the  treasure  house  was  drawn 

A  picture  of  the  frozeir  North, 

A  tale  from  Scandinavian  lore 

Told  in  their  sagas  \ oft  of  yore, 

And  sung  by  scalds  in  Runic  rhyme" 

As  in  another  place  and  time 

The  minstrel  Scot  from  door  to  door 

.Receiving  alms  and  needed  food — 

To  fill  each  heavy  interlude 

Sxing  Scottish  glories  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  for  his  eulogistic  lays 

Received  unstinted,  pence  and  praise. 


But  not  for  long  the  reader  read 


And  pausing,  mid  tlie  silence  said, 
u  This  night  of  all  nights  most  befits 
The  reading  of  these  charming  rhymes 
Of  hardy  sea-kings  and  their  times, 
For  in  the  gale  that  roars  without 
I  seem  to  hear  the  cry  and  shout 
Of  daring  Norsemen  on  the  sea, 
And  down  the  wind  is  borne  to  me 
The  hoarse  halloo,  the  warning  cry, 
The  * -ready  about '  and  quick  'aye,  aye/ 
With  surf  or  breakers  under  lee !  "  • 


A  slender  thread  may  serve  to  string, 

A  row  of  pearls  to  grace  a  king ! 

And  thus  the  pearls  of  thought  were  strung 

Along  the. lines  of  life  he  sung. 


Then  followed  in  a  chatty  strain, 
That  broke  tlie  spell  as  falling  rain 
The  death-like  quiet  and  sultry  air 
That  fall  before  the  tempest's  blare, 
Our  comments  wise  and  otherwise, 
Our  praises  of  the  skill  divine 


By  which  the  poet,  line  by  line, 
Had  wrought  with  sucli  consummate  art, 
And  culling  from  each  land  a  tone, 
Created  music  all  his  own  ! 


Then  one  who  said  he  never  dreamed— 
To  whom  all  things  were  what  they  seenied- 
"  The  shadowy  lands  of  old  Romance 
Are  rich  in  deeds  of  love  and  daring, 
And  ready  tongues  bespeak  the  cause 
Of  those  engaged  in  righteous  wars ; 
While  tales  of  beauty  sore, oppressed 
Bring  flushing  cheek  and  heaving  breast. 
And  when  the  poet  tells  the  tale, 
We  find  ourselves  the  dangers  sharing, 
And  listening  with  bated  breath 
To  see  the  hero  win  or  fail — 
The  lady  rescued,  or  the  knight 
Victorious  issue  from  the  fight ! 

These  ancient  stories  newly  told; 
Of  maidens  fair  or  vikings  bold, 
Are  tributes  to  the  poet's  art 
But  scarcely  seem  of  life  a  part. 
vSeen  through  a  fog  the  keenest  eyes 


Behold  all  tilings  increased  in  size; 
And  years  are  but  a  vale  of  mist, 
The  edges  by  Truth's  sunlight  kissed; 
And  when  a  thousand  years  of  haze 
Its  pranks  with  human  vision  playjs. 
The  listener  finds  ready  tears, 
And  credence  gives  to  all  he  hears. 

Yet  after  all  is  said  and  done, 
The  vikings  of  the  olden  time 
Were  nothing  more  than  Goth  or  Hun  — 
The  main  distinction  was  in  clime 

A  matter  of  mere  latitude ! 

i 

For  might  was  right,  and  will  was  law, 
And  every  hand  good  blood  imbrued. 
One  race  were  robbers  on  the  land, 
The  other  of  the  sea  and  strand. 
If  Frank  and  Gaul  in  terror  fled 
At  savage  forays  on  their  borders, 
No  less  the  humble  fishing  village 
Became  the  scene  of  wreck  and  pillage 
By  Scandinavian  marauders ! 

But  still  the  glamour  makes  the  play, 
No  matter  if  that  distant  day 
Was  filled  by  deeds  of  piracy, 


Or  better  still,  knight  errantry, 
By  doubt  we  lose,  by  faith  we  win, 
And  so  I  .pray,  again  begin. " 


And  then  the  reader  read  the  lay 
Beginning  in  old  Stralsund  bay  - 
Of  skipper  bold,  who  by  the  cup 
Put  down  his  wine— his  courage  up, 
And  swore  by  Neptune  and  his  spear 
He  never  vet  had  felt  a  fear 
.Of  spirits  or  Klaboterman, 
And  could  he  meet  the  CarnrUian, 
The  ghostly  terror  of  the  sea 
Would  fun  her  down— tjiis  valiant  man, 
And  soundings  find  o'er  "  Chimneys  Three." 

No  good -e'er  came  of  idle  boast, 
As  found  the  skipper  to  his  cost. 
But  bootless  'tis  to  here  repeat 
The  stubborn  Dane's  foolhardy  feat — 
The  thoughtless  act  that  led  to  death, 
But  in  the  yielding  of  his  breath 
Gave  him  in  lieu  of  stormy  time 
A  quiet  grave  in  an  unknown  sea, 


Where  spirits  of  wine  nor  men  may  be, 
And  the  unfading  crown  of  rhyme ! 

For  as  the  reader  read,  to  me 
This  eerie  story  of  the  sea  << 
Became  a\s  if  an  o'er  true  tale, 
Not  one  derived  from  legends  old 
And  to  successive  ages  told, 
But  telling  of  the  sob  and  wail 
That  drifted  through  our  inky  night 
As  if  from  witches  in  mad  flight. 


As  in  the  crystal  of  the  seer 
We  look,  half  curious  with  fear, 
The  glowing  coals  now  held  for  me 
"The  stories  garnered  from  the  sea 
By  this  old  drift  that  as  we  spoke, 
Its  incense  yielded  in  the  smoke, 
It  even  seemed  as  if  the  fire 
Some  spirit  of  the  .past  contained. 
And  now  upon  its  funeral  p}7re 
With  dying  voice  it  low  complained. 

And  oft,  I  think,  the  driftwood  fire, 
If  only  we  could  understand, 


Sings  tons  from  the  blazing  pyre 

Of  moving  scenes  by  flood- and  strand. 

Tile  Spirit,  of  the  Sea  within 

The  timbers  broken,  old  and  gray — 

Poor  relics  of  a  bygone  day, 

Finds  in  the  flames  a  kind  release, 

A  haven  at  last  of  rest  and  peace. 


^  The  fire  bnrned  low,  the  flickering  flame 
Cast  dancing  shadows  o'er  the  floor, 
Around  the  walls  and  on  the  door 
Through  which  secnrel}r  fast  in  vain 
The  storm  an  entrance  strove  to  gain. 
And  gazing  on  the  embers  dying, 
There  seemed  to  pass  like  shadows  flying 
Before  my  sight,  the  trials  and  fears 
Of  those  upon  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  those  who  watched  in  grief  and  tears 
Till  days  and  months  grew  into  years, 
And  tear-dimmed  eyes  forgot  to  weep. 


There  drifted  alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea5 
With  none  to  bear  her  company — 


A  type  of  deserted  humanity, 
A  broken  hulk. 

And  deep  ,lay  mold  and  rust  and  grime, 
And  along  her  sides  the  slippery  slime, 
And  the  marks  of  the  hungry  tooth  of  Time 
All  through  her  bulk. 

Like  a  tramp  of  the  sea  she  wandered  alone, 
Her  home  a  memory,  her  name  unknown, 
No  port  that  she  could  call  her  own, 
And  no  repose. 

The  rotting  sails  no  sailors  spread, 
No  sign  nor  sound  of  the  lives  long  sped, 
But  fit  to  bear  and  be  manned  by  the  dead 
She  fell  and  rose 

Upon  the  slowly  heaving  swell, 
The  voice  of  her  idly  swinging  bell 
Mournfully  tolling  her  funeral  knell 
In  blank  despair. 

The  sport  of  every  howling  gale, 


Only  the  faint  and  dismal  wail 
Of  tlie  slackened  shrouds  replied  to  the  hail 
That  spoke  her  fair. 

O,  the  shapes  that  live  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
Are  reaching  their  thousand  arms  for  thee, 
And  the  sight  is  pitiful  to  nie. 

For  once  thou  skimmed  the  seas  as  a  bird, 
And  thy  name  with  joy  the  manners  heard. 
And  at  sight  of  thee  their  pulses  stirred. 

^ 

And  dancing  o'er  the  rippling  blue, 
The  chorus  from  thy  jovial  cre\v 
Flung  back  the  cry  of  the  weird  sea-mew. 

For  thou  in  truth  wast  a  gallant  craft, 

And  came  the  gale  abeam  or  abaft 

The  captain  who  loved  thee  only  laughed, 

And  he  pitied  the  folk  who  lived  on  land, 
While, lie  on  thy  yielding  deck  could  stand 
And  guide  thee  with  a  single  hand. 


;  list ''as  tlirougli  thy  rigging  sings 
The  wind  like  a  harp  of  a  thousand  strings, 
While  thy  proud  head  the  billow  flings 

As  if  thou  scorned  to  be  delay ed,- 
Anct  deigned  not  to  feel  afraid 
Of  shock  or  wreck  by  ocean  made. 

Now  sea-birds  perch  on  shroud  and  guy, 
Or  overhead  with  endless  cry, 
In  swoop  and  circle  tireless  fly. 

It  matters  not  or  good  or  ill 

The  measure  of  thy  days  shall  fill, 

For  wiuds  and  waves  may  work  their  will. 

O,  type  complete  of  hopeless  woe ! 
That  birds  alone  should  see  thee  go 
To  thy  home  port  in  the  depths  below, 

To  settle   in  thy  oozy  bed, 

Mjjl  night  unbroken  and  silence  dread, 

Until  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead! 


Now  ships  from  many  a  port  are  sail  hi 

;  To  many  a  port  afar ; 
And  hopes  ate  high, 

And  faith  is  strong, 
But  the  last  farewell  is  a  tearful  sigh. 
For  the  way  of  the  trackless  waste  is  long: 
And  man^  have  sailed 

With  a  rising  star, 

But  like  the  longed-for  Ships  of  Spain 
Are  watched  and  waited  for  in  vain! 


O,  the  sea  is  patient,  deep  and  wide, 
And  its  depths  a  world  of  beauty  hide; 
And  the  beauty,  wealth  and  power  of  man 

It  stealeth  ever  as  it  can! 


A  line  of  bay-indented  shore — 
The  sound 'of  voices  through  th,e  roar 
Of  surf •'that  breaks  upon  the  beach 
As  if  in  vain  it  tried  to  reach 
The  boats  and  nets  dragged  safe  and  high 
Below  the  homes  that  standing  by 
The  waste  of  tossing,  white-capped  blue, 
Are  heaven  for  -in any  a  hardy  crew. 


Along  the  stretch  of  sandy  beach 

I  wander,  careless,  free, 
And  to  the  soul's  imaginings, 
The  old-time  sweet  rememberings, 

Replies  the. murmuring  sea. 

Afar,  beyond  the  watery  rim 

The  white  sails  melt  away, 
E'en  as  the  twinkling  lamps  of  night 
That  fade  and  die  upon  the  sight, 
Before  the  dawning  day. 

And  nature's  quiet  no  sound  disturbs, 

Or  breaks  the  Sabbath  air, 
Save  as  the  distant  church  bell  tolled, 
And  called  to  worship  as  of  old, 
The  muezzin  called  to  prayer. 

Cast  at  my  feet  a  house  of  pearl, 

Uu tenanted  at  last, 
Still  holds  the  voices  of  the  sea 
And  brings  their  whisperings  to  me — 

The  echoes  of  the  Past. 


The  mingled  sounds  of  ages  gone , 
That  haunt  this  fragile  shell, 

Are  memories  of  those  who  sleep 

In  buried  cities  of  the  deep, 
Of  which  old  legends  tell. 

-Jvike  faintest  hum  of  a  city  far, 

The  murmurings  fall  and  rise, 

An  endless  story  of  the  past, 

The  secrets  of  an  Empire  vast, 

And  tears,  and  prayers  and  cries ! 

Again  across  the  waters  drift 

Sweet  airs  that  softly  die, 
Wafted  from  tropic  islands  fair 
Where  sea-maids  sun  their  streaming  hair 

And  sing  their  lullaby. 

The  song  of  the  sirerTechoes  yet 

The 'charm  it  held  of  old 
For  old  Ulysses  homeward  bound 
Or  Argonauts  who  dying  found 

The  fruit  and  fleece  of  gold ! 


ills  divine, 

1 4'or  iu  the  rise  and  fall, 
Aud  mellowed  by  the  touch  of  time, 
The  bells  of  lost  Atlantis  chime 

.tea  th  their  emerald  pall. 

But  still  like  thoughts  between  the  lines 

I  hear  a  minor  tone, 
The  far,  faint  echoes  of  the  cry 
That  hope  despairing  raised  on.  high 

When  Ocean  claimed  its  own. 

To  me  it  tells  of  fisher-boats 

Whose  haven  once  was  here. 
How  in  the  break  of  day  they  sailed 
Before  the  watching  stars  had  paled, 
And  sailed  without  a  fear. 

Into  the  break  of  day  they  sailed 

And  met  the  rising  sun. 
But  at  its  close,  they  came  not  back — 
The  sea  was  strewn  with  floating  wr^ck, 

Ancl  life' and  work  were  done. 


And-  on  tlie  morrow  laughed  the  sea, 

'  While  wonieri  to  and  fro 
In  tears  and  cries  upon  the  sands 
To  sea-ward  stretched  appealing  hands, 
Sunk  in  the  depths  of  woe ! 

Widowed  and  orphaned  by  the  sea 
That  lay  so  caltn  and  fair ! 

'Tis  fit  the  cruel  deep  should  moan 

. 

And  with  its  funeral  airs  atone 

For  souls  11  n  shriven  /by  prayer. 

And  ever  the  bell  on  distant  buoy 
Tolls  with  the  lifting  surge, 
Its  monotone  of  drear}^  notes 
That  o'er  the  glass}-  surface  floats 

- 

The  burden  of  a  dirge 

That  Ocean  sounds  for  those  within 

Its  caverns  deep  at  rest. 
No  dangers  fright,  no  cares  may  vex — 
The  oft-told  tale  of  storm  and  wrecks 

Has  ended  every  quest! 


But  the  hours  had  sped 

The  while  I  dreamed, 
And  the  tall  old-fashioned  clock 

That  long  for  kith  and  kin 
Of  mine  had  marked  the  hours, 
With  hands  upright  before  its  face 

Now  told  the  morrow's  birth :    < 
And  then  with  sweet  and  mellow  stroke 

In  tone  of  mild  reproach, 
Twelve  times  it  slowly  struck, 
And  each  stroke  plainly  said 
'  Tis  time  that  dreamers  were  in  bed !  ' 

And  so  the  evening  ended, 

And  the  time 
You  here  have  given  to  my  rhyme 

Must  likewise  end : 
And  I  perhaps/  for  undue  length, 
Should  proffer  my  amende. 


CHIPS. 


"> 


O,  list,  my  soul  to  the  grand  old  hymn 

Intoned  by  the  restless  Sea' 
Since  first  to  the  hearts  of  men  it  brought 
The  grandeur  thaf*God  hath  wrought, 
And  bringeth  now  to  me. 

The  rolling  boom  of  the  distant  surf 

In  diapason  deep, 

Blends  with  the  ripples  on  the  shore 
That  rhythmic  flow  forevermbre. 

And  lull  to-  rest  and  sleep. 


Like  a  minster  organ's  solemn 

The  music  fills  the  air 
And  rises  to  the  vaulted  blue 
rendering  the  homage  diu^ 
Him  who  abidetli  vn» 


And  be  the  anthem  deep  and  str<- 

soft  like  distant  bell ; 
Blow  southern  breezes  sweet  and  mild, 
Or  eastern  gales  so  fierce  and  wild, 
Still  shall  the  prean  swell. 

For  since  the  waste  of  waters  felt 

The  Spirit  .o'er  them  move 
And  heard  the  . Word  u  Let  there  be  Light M- 
The  Word  that  banished- Endless  Night, 

The  sea  has  voiced  Pits  love, 

And  sounded  ever  to  the  High 

A  glorious  'Hymn  of  Praise, 
That  rising  since  creation's  morn 
Will  sound  till  Heaven  on  earth  shall  dawu, 

To  Him.  Ancient  of  Davs! 


0nd    3    SUH    Rot    P. 


oroeT, 


A  sweet  refrain  abides  with  me, 

The  echo  of  .a  tender  song 
That  filled  my  heart  when  life  was  free 

And  love  was  sweet,  and  hope  was  strong; 
And  through  the  years  \tis  sounding  yet- — 
The  promise  I  //are  known  .so  long— 
•hid  /  Sh«!/  Not  Forget." 

ing  in  the  glow  of  youth's  bright  morn 
By  the  shore  of  the  whispering  sea, 
And  I  IK-LIT  it  still  though  the  glow  has  gone, 
For  the  singer  was  all  the  world  to  me. 

And  if  hides  till  the  snn  r«7///  we  \hall  set 
i 

And  the  loved  and  fosl  again  I  see — 
Ai/d  I  shiill  not  /(I/ 


For  night  came  down  with  grief  and  the  pall. 
And  I  hear  that  song  on  earth  no  more. 

But  clear  it  rings  in  the  starij  hall 
And  adown  an  nnseen  Golden  Shore. 

And  the  promise  given  when  here  we  met 
Shall  be  kepi  ivith  me  forevermoic— 
'  And  I  shall  not -forget. 

O,  promise  sweet  that  came. with  love, 
And  lives  when  all  of  eartlj  has  gone! 

The  strain  that  falls  from  the  stats  above 
Will  rise  anew  in  the  Risen  Dawn. 

And  we  shall  meet  as  once  ive  met 

When  life  and  love  were  in  their  morn-— 
And  I  shall  not  forget. 


Quqene    Pield. 


The  Children's  Poet  is  sleeping 

With  the  key  to  Childhood's  Heart— 

And  stilled  the  hand  and  mind  that  wrought 
For  them  with  loving  art. 

Yes,  wrapped  in  sleep,  but  ever 

His  dreams  and  fancies  stay, 
And  long  for  children's  hearts  shall  make 

A  happy  holiday. 

Still  as  the  Night-wind  moans, 

Comes  with  a  fear  and  start 
The  consciousness  of  u  Who's  been  bad?  " 

Within  the  childish  };< 


And  still  the  soldier  waiteth 

The  Little  Boy  Bine's  command — 

But  father  and  child  their  dream-life  .live- 
Where  naught  is  but  Dream-land. 

Still  on  the  "'Dream-Ship"  saileth 
Under  the  starry  night — 

Still  at  its  side  the  angels  stand- 
Three  angels  robed  in  white. 

But  now  beside  the  Spirit 

That  standeth  u  crowned  with  rue," 
Bright  with  a  light  divine  appeareth 

The  kindly  face-we  knew. 

Softly  to  earth   there   floateth  x 

From  that  familiar  hand 
Dreams  that  the  old  and  young  delighteth 

In  every  time  and  land! 


Piscina   P! 


eet 


u  Off  for  the  Banks,"  the  fishermen  cry, 

And  "off  for  the  Banks "  the  fishwives  sigh, 
For  the  days  are  long 
And- the  nights  are  drear, 
And  while  they  hearten  their  men  with  song, 
Their  leaden  hearts  are  filled  with  fear. 

they  remember  the  season  past, 
When  a  blinding  gale  and  freezing  blast 
Raged  on  the  Banks 
All  through  the  night. 
And  quietly  out  of  the  floating  ranks 

Dropped  many  a  fisherman's  riding  light. 

And  the  struggling  gray  of  the  morrow's  morn, 
Hound  half  of  the  gallant  vessels  gone. 


Nor  the  sea  that  laughed, 
Brought  to  the  ear  a  'hail 'from  the  crew, 
Nor  token  showed  of  the  missing  craft. 

And  the  boats  that  fled  from  the  place  accursed, 
Sailed  with  their  drooping  flags  reversed. 
And  women  in  tears 
Adown  the  shore, 

Read  from  afar  of  the  coming  years- 
The  tale  the  fluttering  pennants  bore. 

And  to  those  who  wait  and  watch  in  vain, 
Lover  and  husband  come  never  again. 
And  the  storm  they  hate, 
And  the  sea  they  dread, ; 
For  the  one  has  wrought  them  cruel  fate, 
And  the  one  withholds  their  dead. 

•  And  this  is  the  reason  the  fisherman's  cry 
Drags  from  their  woman-kind  a  sigh. 
And  the  old  fish-wife 
Croons  her  sad  song — 
"The  sea  is  cruel  and  robs  our  life, 

And  nights  are  drear  and  days  are  long.''- 


Bay   B 


ay    u/ reams. 


"We  spoke  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 

Of 'what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been  and  might  have  been, 

Of  who  was'changed  and  who  was  dead." 

—Longfellow,   ' '  The  Driftwood  Fire. ' ' 


In  dreams  by  day  there  comes  to  me 

The  face  and  scene  of  the  long  ago, 
The  home  of  my  youth  again  I  see — 

The  town  so  quiet  and  quaint  below 
,The  hills  that  overlook  the  bay— 

The  riar'row  streets  through  which  I  go 
As  when  a  boy,  and  that  to-day 

Run  here  and  there  from  wood  to  sea, 
And  now  as  then  to  the  childish  mind 

Are  part  of  a  strange  weird  mystery. 
The  mystery  of  by-gone  years — 
The  story  of  loves  and  hopes  and  fears, 
Of  those  who  were  but  now  are  not, 
Of  those  remembered,  those  forgot. 


These  very  stones  that  bed  the  street 
So  unresponsive  to  the  touch 
Could  they  but  speak,  would  say  so  much ! 

For  they  had  counted  ni3rriad  feet 
Before  the  field  became  a  street! 


The  old  home  fronts,  upon  the  sea 

Scarce  half  a  cable's  length  away ; 
And  oft  as  a  child  it  seemed  to  me 

They  had  their  quiet,  unnoted  play ; 
For.  House  and  Sea  are  old,  old  friends 

And  fleeting  }rears  have  a  century  spanned 
Since  first  by  the  favor  friendship' lends, 

The  restless  waves  upon  the  strand 
That  slip  ashore  in  rhythmic  time 
Light  voyagers  from  some  other  clime, 
Told  it  their  weird  or  thrilling:  tale 
Of  vexing  calms,  or  wreck  and  gale ; 
Of  ships  that  gaily  sailed  from  port 

And  then  returned  to  port  no  more ! 
But  watched  and  waited  for  in  vain 

Have  left  their  bones  on  ocean's  floor 
Or  rocky  reefs  across  the  main; 

Of  shapes  that  fled  before  the  storms 


With  rope  mi  touched  and  canvas  spread, 
Maniied  by  the  silent  ghostty  forms 
Their  brother  sailors  deem  as  dead! 

Who,  as  the}'  drive  before  the  gale, 
Return  to  cries  no  answering  hail 
But  fly  on  their  unending  quest, 
To  others  neither  host  nor  guest ! 

And  to  the  whispering  summer  sea, 

Or  shriek  of  piercing  wintry  gale, 
The  House  has  listened  eagerly 

And  felt  each  cry,  each  sobbing- wail ; 
And  as  it  heard  the  saddened  moan 

With  echoes  of  the  d}ang  fraught, 
Has  answered  with  a  creak  and  groan 

As  if  it  shivered  at  the  thoueht! 


Where  once  the  Indian's  wigwam  stood, 

The  church  and  school  stand  side  by  side, 

In  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  spreading  wood 
The  Narragansett  wooed  his  bride. 

From  bay  and  shore  he  drew  the  store 
Made  ready  for  his  idle  hand, 

And  needing  less  and  finding  more 


He  blessed  the  kind  and  fertile  land,, 
And  as  for  quiet  and  rest  he  came, 
He  gave  the  place  its  .Indian  name.'11 

A  thousand  ships  liave  left  these  wharves 

For -every  port  and  clime: 
Some  have  returned  and  others  stayed, 
Some  in  their  ports  will  be  delayed 

Unto  the  end  of  time! 
The  gray  sea-beards  that  rise  and  fall 

Upon  each  stony  face, 
Declare  the  age  of  witnesses 
That  speak  of  long  gone  argosies 

And  Ocean's  rough  embrace. 


Like  shadows  from  low-flying  clouds 

The  passing  phantoms   cpme  and  go, 

Not  singly,  but  in  sweeping  crowds— 
The  shades  of  those  I  used  to  know. 

Aye,  used  to  know  but  know  no  more, 

For  mile-stone  years  have  come  between 

And  point  the  way  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  boyhood  to  the  closing  scene. 

tattapoisett."     Signifying  "Place  of  Rest.'' 


The  sighing  pines  their  vigil  keep. 

And  stone  and  tablet  mark  the  place 

Where  in  their  long  and  dreamless  sleep 
They  lie — the  fallen  in  the'race. 

And  still  they  moan  the  last  requiem 

For  those  who  sleep  so  sonnd  below — 

I  hear  the  "music  in  my  dream 

In  mournful  cadence  weird  and  low. 

They  whisper  to  the  restless  sea, 

And  to  the   sailor  on  the  main 

Is  borne  the  air  from  the  "distant  lea 
In  tender,  low  and  sweet  refrain. 

The  sea-gull's  wing  still  flecks  the  blue 
And  the  flashing  gleams  of  white 

Shoot  through  the  Summer  air  as  do 

The  star-beams  through  the  mists  of  night. 

The  light-house,  warder  of  the  coast, 

Still  throws  its  guiding  beams  abroad — 

To  many  a  sailor  tenlpest  tossed 

It  seems  a  saving  sign  from  God! 


And  woods  and  shore  and  wharf  and  weed 
Are  redolent  of  years  long  fled; 

Of  passing  man  they,  take  no  heed, 
But  breathe  the  story  of  the  dead. 


The  pictures'  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 

And  none  shall  say  me  nay 
That  from  the  dim  and  distant  past 
Of  which  we  form  a" part  at  last, 
I  draw  from  stores  of  treasures  vast, 
And  care  not  for  To- Day. 


I  \ibr)ara.    Henry    ©toad'arcl. 


IVith  deference  but  aye  ivith  love} 
J/V  Jiea.rt  its  tribute  sends, 

And  to  the  greeting  I  would  add 

Th*  warmth  that  friendship  lends. 

So  if  among  the  laurel  leaves 

There  grows  no  spray  of  pine  ^ 
I  pray  thee  to  accept  as  such 

'  TJiis  Jialtntg  verse  of  mine. 

And  ii'hen  hesidt    the  western  sea 
Afy  heart  shall  voice  thy  praise-, 

Thins  may  it  reach  like  vesper  chimes 
hi  the  K:'cning  of  thy.  Days! 


>toaaara---ol  t 


His  is  the  seaniy  side  of  life, 
And  well  lie  knows  the  care  and  strife 

That  vex  the  poor. 
The  human  tide  in  restless  sweep 
Like  waves  and  eddies  of  the  deep. 
Breaks  at  his  door. 

He  d\Yelk  amid  the  life  and  jar 
Of  busy  men,  but  from  afar 

He  draws  his  song 
That  swells  beyond  the  city's  bound. 
Until  the  world  has  heard  the  sound 

So  true  and  strong. 

The  i  Songs  of  Summer '  he  may  sing, 
Of  *  Bells ?  that  only  once  may  ring, 

Or  friends  that  pail. 
The  note  the  soaring  lar-k  might  trill- — 


Oi  mountain  purling  rill 

Fl<nv  fn>m  his  heart. 

To  gardens  in  far-off  Cathay — 
To  deserts  where  the  Nubians  stay,' 

Il<-  K-acls  tlie  mind. 
The  Orient  and  the  West  are  ours — 
With  him  we  linger  'mid  the  flowers, 

Or  ride  the  wind. 

And  rising  frotn  that  little  room 
The  song  is  scented  with  the  bloom 

( )f  country  highways.    . 
Or  with  a  deeper,  tenderer  strain 
He  speaks  for  one  in  shame  and  pain 

In  city  by-ways. 

The  anthem  of  tlie  mighty  Deep, 
The  yodel  of  the  Alpine  steep 

Are  sung  by  him. 
What  matter  if  the  hair  is  gray, 
Or  twilight  hastens  after  day, 
-ight  is  dim? 

Almost  he  sees  that  far-off  coast. 


And  hears  the,  sweetly7'  .choiring  host 

That  once  he  knewf 
The  poets  who  tarried  on  the  earth 
And  gave  to  Song  its  newer  birth, 

Await  him  too, 

For  he  has  passed  the  scriptural  bound, 
And  sits  with  bay  and  laurel  crowned, 

Close  by  the  Gate. 
A  creditor  of  human  kind, 
Infirm  but  brave,  and  weak  and  blind. 

And  this  is  fate! 

Stoddard,  one  place  is  not  for  thee ! 
Thy  home  is  every  land  and  sea 

And  ever}^  heart. 

Each  day  some  door  shall  open  wide, 
And  there  ^shalt  thou  in  peace  abide, 

Of  L/ife  a  part. 

Each  day  some  heart  shall  offer  rest 
-And  mate  of  thee  an  honored  guest 

For  thy   sweet  song. 
The  monument  built  by  thy  hand, 
That  speaks  for  thee  in  even'  land. 

Endures  for  long! 


uJov. 


[From  Schiller's  William  Tell,  j 


The  laughing  Sea  to  its  bosom  wooes 

The  boy  asleep  on  the  shore 
And  the  dreaming  child  tired  out  by  play 

Shall  wake  on  earth  no  more. 
Sweet  music  o'er  his  senses  steals 

Like  airs  from  Paradise, 
Or  flute-tones  sweet, or  distant  bell — 

In  sleep  he  dreams — and  dies! 
The  waves  now  playing  about  his  breast 

Have  claimed  him  for  their  own, 
And  from  the  erstwhile  laughing  Sea 

There  conies  in  deeper  tone 
%k  Long  have  I  loved  thee,  dearest  boy, 

And  now  shalt  thou  be  mine. 
'Twas  I  that  cradled  thee  in  sleep, 

'Tis  I  who  lovingly  entwine !  " 


P  runii 


m   P  runnqseei 


In  the^beauteous  month  of  May, 
When  buds  and  flowers  start. 

The  Flower  of  Love  renewed 
Blooms  in  my  loving  heart. 

In  the  beauteous  month  of  May, 

When  ringing  birds  are  thronging, 

I  could  but  whisper  thee 

My  heart's  sincerest  longing. 


Por  tbe    ply  Qeof,  of  trje    I  \ubatyat. 


The  Seeker  for  the  Light  herein 
These  burning  lines  shall  scan  in  vain. 

No  Soul  a  recompense  shall  win 
For  Faith  undimined  or  earthly  Pain. 

No  narrow  Road  ends  at  a  Gate — 
But  Birth  and  Life  and  Life's  long  Sleeping 

Are  written  by  a  Hand  of  Fate 
That  heeds  nor  hears  your  Prayers  nor  Weeping, 

Life's  perfect  round  begins  £hd  ends 
In  Dust.     Our  Hopes  succeed  or  fail— 

The  Arc  attained  our  Chord  subtends 
The  Hand  drops  down  its  Veil ! 


!uf  Wieaersepen 


It  is  by  God's  decree  appointed, 

That  man  from  all  he  loves —  ' 
From  all  he  loves  or  has,  must  part, 
'  And  nothing  in  the  world  abides : 

The  keenest  grief  of  every  heart 
Is  parting  pain. 
Yet  should  we  rightly  understand 

The  kiridness  of  the  law, 
.For  when  we  walk  with  lingering  feet— 
When  paths  diverging  bring  but  grief ? 
Heart  cries  to  heart  "  Again  we'll  meet, 
Yes,  meet  again!" 


